


The Show Must Go On

by Calasara



Category: That Mitchell and Webb Look (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Canon Disabled Character, Gen, Post-Apocalyptic, Post-Canon, Starvation, Yuletide 2010
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calasara/pseuds/Calasara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that there's only him and Peter, the host knows that the Quiz is more important than ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Show Must Go On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gemjam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemjam/gifts).



The host stood there, wondering whether he should let go of Peter's hand yet and not really wanting to, when the lights flickered. As he worriedly looked around the disarrayed studio, there was a distant rumbling, grinding sound, and then the lights went out, plunging them into darkness. Or, at least, plunging him into darkness.

“Oh,” he said, suppressing the urge to utter something stronger.

“What is it? What was that noise?” said Peter. The host couldn't see him but he suspected Peter was now moving his head about in that strange directionless way he usually did.

“The lights have gone out. It must be the generator...”

“That's not good, is it?”

The host was trying to think of a nice way to say that as they relied on the generator to filter their air and run the liquid recycler, then it probably wasn't good. But before he'd found the words, there was another, different, rumbling sound, and then the lights were coming back on – although dimmer than before. And the 'on air' sign stayed off.

“I think that was the back-up generator kicking in. The lights are back. Although we aren't broadcasting any more.” He paused. “Maybe we should go and look at the generator.”

“Alright. Which way is it?”

“It's this way,” he said, finally letting go of Peter's hand in order to tuck it into the crook of his arm. “Come on, I'll lead.” And they set off, with the host quite pleased to have found another way to keep bodily contact.

The generator room was at the end of a corridor, past the now almost entirely empty storeroom. The host noted that the floor leading to it was covered with quite a lot of dust; obviously some of Them had come this way. The door had a keep out sign but it wasn't locked. The host opened it and carefully guided Peter inside.

In front of them was a mass of machinery – pipes, buttons, levers and panels – and all of it looked either dirty or broken. “Well, there's a big metal thing on the left,” said the host, describing the room for Peter, “which I think is the primary generator, because it's just sitting there. And there's a smaller metal thing on the right which is making that humming noise you can probably hear, and I guess that must be the back-up generator.”

“Could we fix the first generator?”

“The engineer used to look after all this stuff. I have no idea how any of it works. I thought maybe there'd be steam coming out of a pipe and a label saying 'if pressure is too high, turn wheel anti-clockwise'.”

“And there isn't?”

“There's no steam, there's no wheel and there are no labels at all. So unless you secretly have some mechanical knowledge, we're going to have to wait until the engineer gets back.”

“We'll be waiting forever then,” said Peter, sullenly. “It's been weeks since we found his foot.”

“He might still come back,” said the host, trying to sound positive. “We never found the rest of him, after all.”

“That doesn't mean he's alive,” Peter snapped.

The host didn't push it; he didn't want to start an argument with the only person he had to talk to. He made a non-committal noise and then the two of them lapsed into silence.

“That humming noise is making my ears ache,” said Peter after a minute.

“Let's go back to the studio then. We can't do anything here.”

The two of them turned around and the host took Peter's arm again. But when they'd navigated the doorway again, the host stared at the corridor in front of him and realised that he had no idea how to get back to the studio. Damn it, three years later and whatever the Event had done to everyone's brains was still active. As if he hadn't forgotten enough already...

He was just looking at the two fresh pairs of footprints in the dust on the floor when Peter said, “Why have you stopped?”

“I was... adjusting my tie.” The host fiddled with his jacket so that it made a rustling sound. “I'm ready now.” Having concluded that they must have made those footprints on their way in, he lead Peter off in that direction. When they turned left at the end of the corridor, they found themselves back in the studio. The host lead them back to where they'd been standing when the lights went out, near Peter's podium.

“What do we do now?”

The host wrung his hands. “We could keep playing. I still have some cards left...”

“You mean, do The Quiz Broadcast without it being broadcast?”

He looked down. They had no way to fix the generator; they had almost certainly done their last ever broadcast. But he didn't want to give up on the quiz. And if there were never going to be any more viewers, it wouldn't matter if they used up the questions – so he didn't see why they shouldn't carry it on for themselves. “Y-Yes. We can always tell the audience what we did.”

“Alright.”

“Stand behind your podium,” said the host, drawing Peter over to it. “If we're going to play we ought to do it properly.” Having deposited Peter, the host raced to stand behind his own podium, then summoned up as much cheeriness as he could and launched into his opening spiel.

“Hello, good evening, and remain indoors. Welcome to a special edition of the show, our second for the day.” It was odd, he though, performing like this when he knew no one was watching. But it would've felt stranger not to do it at all. “It's time for round three: everything I have left on my cards. So, question one: When was the last time we received any food parcels?”

Peter pressed his buzzer, but it didn't result in a sound. “It's not buzzing,” he said, pushing it several more times to no effect.

The host felt his heart sink a little. “The back-up generator is on a different system. It only powers the essential things, and it seems the architects decided buzzers are non-essential.” He rallied a little. “We'll just have to play without them.”

“Shall I say 'buzz' instead?”

The host looked down. The buzzers not working was upsetting but he thought that would be worse. “No, no, there's no need. Just go ahead and say your answers. There isn't anyone else to buzz in.”

“Okay.”

“So: When was the last time we received any food parcels?”

“Was it... twelve days ago?”

“Yes, well counted, Peter. Question two: Who do we think sent those food parcels?”

“Them. We're pretty sure it was Them.”

“Correct. The packaging was all wrong. Question three: Why do we think They were trying to keep us alive?”

“Because They prefer Their food to be fresh.”

“Yes, that's right, we think They wanted us to be as tasty as possible when They finally got in.” The host laughed. “That plan rather backfired, didn't it? It only made us harder to catch.”

“Yes, it's Their own fault They didn't get to eat us.” Peter laughed too.

He went to the next card and realised it was the first one. “Oh, umm. We seem to have run out of questions already.” He went through the worn cards and they had definitely used all of them. “I guess that's the end of the round. Congratulations, Peter. You have the most points so you win.” He didn't know how many points Peter had; this time he hadn't bothered to count.

“Yay! Is my prize some food?”

“I – I don't know. I'll go and see whether there's anything left.” He didn't remember there being any food left, but considering what other things he'd forgotten... And if he went to the storeroom he could always bring back something to drink.

As he walked down the corridor for the second time, he wondered if he should mark directions on the walls around the bunker. Peter would never know... But of course he had no paint or anything like that.

When he got to the storeroom, he checked all of the shelves but he didn't find anything to eat. He hadn't been wrong about that. Sighing, he grabbed two of the empty plastic bottles that made up the bulk of things actually stored in the storeroom and began filling them up from the liquid recycling machine. Without this thing, he thought, if they'd had to rely on their drink being supplied like their food, none of them would have lasted even half as long as they had. With it, they had a near-limitless supply of clear drinking liquid – even if it was the same liquid, going in one end and... well.

Having filled the bottles, he went back out into the corridor. He was slightly cheered to discover that the part of his brain which knew the route to the studio was now accessible again. Memories which disappeared like that didn't always come back. Everyone wished they would remember the things that they wanted to remember, and forget the things that they wanted to forget, but it never seemed to work out that way. He still remembered the horrors of the Event, but he couldn't remember the word for what he'd just put in the bottles.

He hurried back. It had been fine to wander around on your own when there were other people all over the bunker, but now that it was just the two of them it felt a bit wrong to split up.

“Sorry, there wasn't any food. But I did bring something to drink.” Peter held out a hand but the host said, “Why don't you sit down? Conserve some energy.” Peter cautiously sat down, then felt his way backwards until he was leaning against his podium. The host sat down next to him and handed him one of the bottles, then began drinking from his own.

He felt he should strike up some kind of conversation but he didn't really know what to say to Peter. When there had been other people around, before They had gotten in and the two of them were left alone, he hadn't spent that much time with him beyond filming the quiz. Ever since the Grey Sickness had carried the director off, he'd basically been in charge of everything – not just the quiz, but the rations, the guards' watches, everyone's health. It had kept him quite busy; or he'd used it to keep busy, at any rate. He'd never before faced the prospect of interacting with one person – the same person – all day, every day.

They had been sitting there for a little while, drinking in silence, when Peter suddenly piped up. “How long do you think it will be before someone comes for us?”

“I don't know, Peter. I don't know.”

“They must be coming for us. They wouldn't just leave us here. Maybe they don't know where we are?”

“Considering we don't even know where we are... Probably.” The host took another swig from his bottle, then opened his mouth to add something – but, glancing at Peter's worried expression, he closed his mouth again.

A chiming sound echoed throughout the room.

“Sleep time already?” said Peter.

“I'm afraid so,” sighed the host. Nobody was ever eager for the night. “Come on.” The two of them slowly got to their feet and made their way towards the back of the studio, where the audience would have been had it been a nice, normal, pre-Event studio. The host didn't take Peter's arm this time; Peter set off on his own, making the journey he made every night.

The host faltered for a moment when he entered the sleeping room and laid eyes on the rows and rows of safety bags that were no longer needed. Of course, people had always been leaving, but only last week there had been ten of them – not just him and Peter, but also Sheila, two cameramen, a sound engineer, and four guards. That had felt like a group. Two people was not a group. Two people was... terrifying.

As the host stood there, Peter walked past him and moved steadily down the row, sweeping his stick backwards and forwards across the floor in front of him to check there weren't any obstacles. When he reached a particular spot on the floor – had he been counting steps? – he stopped and turned sharply to the left.

The host bit his lip. How did Peter get into his safety bag? He'd never thought about it before. With all of the other people bustling around, he'd not paid that much attention. Did Peter usually need someone to help him? But no, as he watched, Peter bent down, found his safety bag and flipped it open. Then he knelt down, crawled into it, felt his way to the zips and started zipping himself inside.

The host walked over to his own safety bag and began to do the same. As he zipped it up around his head from the inside, he had to fight the weird claustrophobic feeling he always got from being trapped in something so small; it felt too much like a coffin. But he couldn't leave it undone – that was against the regulations. And anyway, it wasn't safe. He had to be content with the face-gauze that not only acted as an air filter but provided some limited vision.

The chimes rang out again – three, this time – and then the lights dimmed so low that it was almost impossible to see anything at all. Not that there was much to see; the ceiling was smooth concrete and, apart from a few stains, completely featureless. But he still missed it. In the dark, the horrible memories came to the fore.

The host squeezed his eyes shut and soon he was asleep. It wasn't a peaceful sleep though, it never was – as soon as he was unconscious, the nightmares began. Over and over, images of the Event, of the things he'd witnessed, too terrible to name even if he'd known what they were called. He awoke, sweating, choking back a cry, a short time later.

Lying there, in the dark, he found it harder to calm down than he normally did. The nightmares were the same as ever, but somehow he felt worse. Instead of the usual comforting aural blanket of soft snuffling and rustling sounds, there was only the one lonely noise that was quite possibly someone sobbing. Eventually he got back to sleep, waking only a few more times, and in the morning, when the chime had rung again and the lights had come back on, he said nothing to Peter about what he'd heard.

They went to the studio again, out of habit.

“Shall we play the quiz some more?”

“I thought you'd run out of questions.”

“Yes, but questions aren't like food: when you run out, you can just make up some more.”

“I wish we still knew how to make food,” said Peter, wistfully.

“So do I, Peter, so do I.” He paused. “Okay, question one: what were the people who used to make food known as?”

“Supermarkets.”

“Correct. Although that was an easy one.” But now he found he couldn't think of another one. “Err... Sorry, I – I didn't have to do this all by myself before. The guards and the crew used to help me with it. And we had a whole week between broadcasts.”

“Why don't I ask you some questions?” said Peter, brightly.

He considered it for a moment, worried about this exchange of roles. But it was either that or stop playing. “Alright. We can have a special Reverse Round. The contestants ask the questions and the host has to answer them.”

“Don't you mean 'contestant'?”

“Yes, I do. Which is the correct answer to your question, so one point to me!”

“Are you still giving out the points then?”

“Yes. Is that alright?”

“I suppose so. It's not like we're playing for a prize any more...”

“The prize is not being bored,” the host enthused, “and we both get to share it.”

“That's not much of a prize. It's not even an actual object,” said Peter with disdain.

“Well, we don't have many objects left.”

“Here's a question for you then: what objects do we have left?”

The host looked around. “...I've got my question cards.”

Peter opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again.

“What is it?” said the host suspiciously.

“I was just thinking... If you're going to ask me questions as soon as you think of them from now on, you won't need to write them down. So maybe we could, umm, eat them?”

The host thumbed the bent corners of the cards. He didn't really want to give them up, but he knew what Peter was saying made sense. “Alright,” he said, reluctantly. “I've got six of them, so that's three each.”

“Excellent,” said Peter, holding out his hand.

The host gave him his share. “Maybe we should ration ourselves to one a day.”

“I'm too hungry to care about that,” said Peter, biting off a piece of one.

“I suppose as it'd only last us three days it's not really worth it... And it's not real food, so it's not going to be that filling.”

“Exactly,” said Peter, but it was somewhat muffled by the bits of card he had in his mouth.

The host looked sadly at the cards he had in his hands. First the cameras, then the buzzers, now this... But he took a deep breath and raised one to his mouth, then tore off a corner with his teeth. It was utterly tasteless, which meant it ranked above a lot of other things he'd eaten recently. He worked his way through the pile.

Peter had already finished his. “I'm still hungry. Don't you have any more cards anywhere?”

“No. I've just been reusing the same ones for about a year now. You can't see it, but the back of each one is covered in questions.”

“What did you use to write on them?”

“I had a pencil, although I haven't seen it since They got in.”

“Oh.” Peter looked disappointed. “I suppose a pencil would be quite difficult to eat anyway.”

With that, they lapsed into silence again. Occasionally one of them would think of a question to ask the other and then they'd talk for a little while, but then they'd slide back into silence.

Then Peter suddenly said, “You've never told me your name.”

The host could feel his heart pounding in his chest now. “What does it matter?”

“It's just strange for me not to have anything to call you.”

“You don't need to call me anything. It's just us now. The only person you could be speaking to is me.”

“I could be talking to Sheila...”

“Well, yes.” The host glanced at the bag on the floor. “But I don't think you're going to be able to have much of a conversation with her.”

“I miss talking to Sheila. She was nice.” Peter looked thoughtful. “Maybe I could call you Sheila...”

“Look, I'm just the host, alright?” he snapped. And then there was another silence – but more awkward this time. After a minute, when he'd calmed down, the host said softly, “Sorry.”

“No, I shouldn't have mentioned it. None of us really like talking about who we used to be, do we?”

And then they were back to the long silences, broken only by the occasional question or rumble of someone's stomach. Or, eventually, by the chime.

They made their way to the sleeping room. This time the host followed Peter to his space.

“Listen, Peter. Why don't I sleep over here tonight?” he said, nervously. “I'll swap my safety bag with the one next to yours. The lighting technician isn't using his at the moment so I'm sure he won't mind.”

“Yes, I'd like that,” said Peter, opening his own safety bag.

The host grabbed the technician's safety bag and scurried across the room to where his own one lay. “Just until he comes back. Then if he wants his old spot, I'll swap back.” He had only just thrown down his safety bag in its new place and started to zip himself inside when the three chime warning came and the lights went down. Through the face gauze of his safety bag, he could only just make out the shape of Peter lying next to him. “Good night,” he said.

“Good night,” came back the rather muffled reply.

The host was asleep within minutes, but he didn't stay that way for long. He soon found himself jolting awake, and lay there, struggling to breathe and to force the terrible thoughts out of his head. He shuffled a little closer to Peter. Just that little increase in proximity made him feel much calmer.

He fell asleep again after a little while, but the nightmares returned and he woke up again. Lying there, waiting for sleep or morning, he heard Peter give a small cry; then, silence; and then, soft shuffling sounds. He forced himself to stay rigid, not to look, because it was the unwritten rule that you ignored everything that the others did during the night but he knew that Peter was edging closer to him.

By the time he woke up from his third nightmare, he found Peter was snuggled up right against him – and despite the smell, he was glad to have another human being close enough to be able to hear them breathing, to know that he wasn't the only person left alive in the whole world. The pressure of Peter's body against his arm was comforting; what was less so was the fact that Peter seemed to be muttering “no, Rosa, no” in his sleep.

It was a little bit awkward in the morning, but neither of them said anything and they quickly settled back into the routine they'd established. It was surprising what you could learn to ignore, the host thought. Like the end of the world, for example.

They'd been sitting on the studio floor for an hour or two when the host took a deep breath and then blurted out, “Peter, do you think we should go outside?”

“Is this part of the quiz?”

“No... No, this is just a question.”

“Aww,” moaned Peter. “I was hoping for a point.”

The host sighed. “Fine, you can have a point if you give me an answer. Any answer. There isn't a right one. We've been running low on food for a while now; the food parcels stopped coming weeks ago. And it's helped that – that it's just been us for the last few days, but...”

“People will come,” asserted Peter, as he'd done before.

The host hesitated, then explained the theory that he'd held back on two days ago. “I don't think there are any people. When was the last time we heard from anyone? We're supposed to have a regular supply of food parcels and new contestants and messages from the Central Planning Department, but we haven't had any of those for weeks. And that was all before They got in...”

“Maybe there were places that They didn't get into?”

“Peter, there were thousands of Them,” he said simply.

“You think we're the only people left in the world?”

The host thought about the entire earth, completely devoid of human life, and it seemed to him not only terrifying but also unlikely. “Maybe not in the whole world. Maybe there are still a few people out there, in other countries, but... not within travelling distance.”

Peter was silent. The host waited a few moments, then continued. “I think we should go outside. It might not be safe out there, but if we stay here we're definitely done for. If we leave, we only _might_ be done for.”

“But what about the power surges? Or the radiation? Or the diseases? Isn't there anything we could wear to protect ourselves?”

“No... All of that equipment was damaged before you even arrived here.”

“We don't have any hazmat suits?”

“We _had_ hazmat suits – just like we had regular food parcels, a working generator, and _a proper quiz_.” He could feel a lump forming in his throat, but he bit his lip and swallowed a few times, forcing the panic down.

There was a moment of silence and then Peter said quietly, “What about the raiders?” He reached up and briefly touched his glasses, as if subconsciously. Then he said more enthusiastically, “Could we take one of the guards' guns?”

“Even if there are any raiders left out there – which I doubt – the guards used up all of their ammunition on Them. By the end they were hitting Them with the butts of their guns.”

“I wondered what that crunching sound was...”

The host grimaced. That wasn't what all of those sounds had been.

Peter continued, “So we'll just have to take our chances...”

“Yes.”

Peter said nothing for a little while, seemingly thinking things over. Finally he said, “So when are we going?”

The host found he was incredibly glad that Peter had not even suggested that one of them went outside while the other remained behind. “I think we should go now. Even if there is food out there, we'll have to find it, and the longer we go without food the harder it will be to search.”

“It's probably a good job we ate your cards then. They'll give us strength for the journey.”

The host winced. “Yes. Come on.”

The two of them stood up and the host took Peter's arm again. He lead him to a door at the far right of the studio, which opened onto a corridor with a slightly upward-sloped floor. It continued straight on for a short distance before turning to the left, and the two of them followed it. About halfway along this stretch of the corridor there was a lump of rock lying in the middle of the floor which the host guided Peter around. He didn't look up, but he suspected that there was a corresponding hole in the ceiling.

At the next left turn, the host discovered the some of the lights ahead were broken and a large portion of the corridor was in complete darkness. He carried on regardless until –

“Oww!” There was now a sharp pain in his leg.

“What is it? What's wrong?”

“I just walked into something,” hissed the host, rubbing his shin.

“Why did you do that?”

“Because it's dark and I can't see anything!” he said, sharper than he meant to.

Peter seemed unperturbed by the host's tone. “I can't see anything either,” he said calmly. “Why don't you let me lead for a while?”

After he'd taken a few calming breaths, the host said, “Yes, yes, fine.”

Peter lead on. The host couldn't see anything, and all he could hear was the sound of Peter's stick tapping on the floor. It was strangely intimate, relying on Peter to keep him safe. He wondered if it this was what it was like for Peter to be lead by him.

Shortly before they came to yet another left turn, they arrived at the end of the dark part. “The lights here are working. It'll be faster if I lead us,” said the host.

Peter stopped moving his stick. “Okay.”

As they turned into the fourth section of the corridor, Peter asked irritably, “How many more times are we going to have to turn left?”

“Twice, I think.”

“Why is it such a long way?”

“I don't know. Maybe we're so deep underground that they needed this much slope to be able to fit the stairs in? Or perhaps it's supposed to protect us.”

“Protect us from what? The laziest raiders in the world? 'We've gone to the trouble of breaking into this bunker but I don't think I can be bothered to walk around a square! Let's go and set fire to a tree instead.'”

The host laughed.

As they went around yet another corner, Peter said, “Really though, aren't we just going to end up back where we started?”

“No, we'll end up directly above where we started. Can't you feel the way the floor slopes upwards?”

“Of course I can feel it. It's actually making me feel a bit dizzy.”

“Are you sure that isn't just the hunger?”

“...It might be.”

They turned the final corner and came upon a flight of stairs. “There are some stairs here, but they're the last obstacle before we reach the decontamination chamber,” explained the host. “Are you okay to climb them without instructions from me? There's a railing you can hold onto.”

“As long as I go slowly I should be fine.”

The host lead Peter to the foot of the stairs and helped him find the railing. Then they began to climb. The host was faster than Peter, and after every few steps he would stop and look back to check he was alright. When they'd nearly reached the top, the host said, “Only another four steps to go.” He bounded ahead and stood waiting to catch hold of Peter's arm again. “Last one, and... you're done.”

They'd reached a little plateau. Facing them, a few metres away, was a set of double doors. The host lead Peter up to them. “These doors lead to the decontamination chamber.” He lightly rapped his knuckles on their surface so that they echoed. “Beyond that is the outdoors.”

“Will we have to be decontaminated?”

“Only if we come back in again. The jets won't fire unless you try to open these doors from the other side.” He added quickly, “Anyway, it doesn't hurt. You just get a bit wet. I remember the guards talking about it.” He pressed a red button on the wall, which beeped, and then pushed open the doors. “Come on, it's fine.”

The doors swung shut behind them as they walked into the chamber. The walls, floor and ceiling were all covered with metal sheeting. There were drains in the floor and little nozzles in a line along the left and right walls. Here and there were bits of debris, including a medium-sized stone. The host lead Peter across the room, avoiding them, and stopped a little short of the doors. He placed his hand over the button that would release their seal and then hesitated. “A-Are you ready for this?”

Peter squeeze his arm in reply. The host pushed the button.

“Stand back,” he said, and pulled one of the doors open, propping it open with the stone. Then he took Peter's arm again and the two of them stepped outside for the first time in three years.

He had expected it to be dazzling bright after spending so long indoors, but the sky was a dingy grey colour and didn't trouble his eyes at all. The two of them had come out near the top of a large hill and it gave him a clear view across the landscape. In the distance was a collection of buildings, all of which were in a state of collapse. Spanning the distance between there and the foot of the hill was a wide, flat stripe of grey material, and dotted here and there, along its edges, were a few of those mysterious orange-and-white-striped pointy things. The grass beneath his feet, and all around, was yellow and withered. Of the few trees he could see, most were no longer standing and all of them had no leaves. There seemed to be nothing living within sight.

Apart from the breeze, which carried a not-entirely-pleasant smell, there was almost complete silence – although he could hear a faint bleeping sound. He wondered if it was coming from inside the bunker, but he didn't remember hearing it before they came outside. Maybe it was a warning that they'd left the door open.

“Tell me what you're seeing,” said Peter.

“There are fields and trees and buildings, and everything is brown or grey and... I don't remember exactly, but – but I think all this should be green.” He put his free hand to his mouth. “I can't believe we came outside for this. I didn't think it would be this bad.” He could feel the panic and the fear and the loss bubbling up inside him. He tried to hold it in, but this time biting his lip wasn't enough, and the tears started trickling down his face. The effort of suppressing a sob began to make his shoulders shake.

“Are you alright?” asked Peter. “You're shaking. You're not getting radiation sickness, are you? I remember Tom shaking after he was exposed, I could hear his clothes rustling right up until – ”

“I'm not sick, I'm fine,” the host said through gritted teeth, but his voice cracked as he did so.

“You're crying, aren't you?”

“I'm not!”

“You don't have to lie. I might be blind but I don't need you to protect me.”

“That's not why I – That's not – I – I – ” He roughly brushed a hand across his eyes. “Peter, I'm the host! I have to keep the quiz going! No matter what, I have to keep the contestants playing and I have to stay calm. I can't let myself fall apart.”

“There isn't a quiz now. You don't have to be the Host any more.”

“But if I'm not the host then who am I? I don't remember anything, Peter! I don't remember anything before the Event – not my family, my friends, my house or my job. All I can remember is the Quiz. I don't even remember my own name!”

And then he couldn't hold it in any more. He let go of Peter's hand and sat down heavily, sobbing without restraint. A few moments later, Peter carefully sat down beside him and, without saying a word, put a hand on his shoulder.

They sat there, the two of them, in that broken landscape, while the host cried. After a while the sobs subsided, and the tears slowed but didn't stop. The host, wiping his eyes occasionally, looked at the devastation before them and wondered what on earth they should do now. He still hadn't come up with an answer when Peter spoke.

“What's that noise?”

“The beeping noise? I thought it was a warning that we'd left the doors open.”

“But it's getting louder. Whatever's making it, I think it's coming closer.”

The Host looked around. A creature, smaller than the size of his fist, was flitting through the air, coming in their general direction, and making odd, intermittent, high-pitched noises. “It's – It's some kind of tiny, fluffy, flying thing.”

“...Do you mean it's a bird?”

“Yes, yes, that's what it's called! Do you know what this means? That thing must have to eat, same as we do. And if it's survived out here all this time, that means there must be food somewhere around here. Real, uncontaminated food.”

“Come on,” he said, standing up and pulling Peter with him, “let's follow it. Whatever it stops to eat, we can eat too.”

“And if all else fails,” said Peter, as they stumbled down the hill, “we can always eat the bird.”


End file.
